


Wrap Up Warm

by thesignsofserbia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cold Weather, Coping Mechanisms, Gen, M/M, POV John Watson, PTSD Sherlock, Phobias, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sickfic, The East Wind - Freeform, Winter, ignorant narrator, read in between the lines sort of thing, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 15:24:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4527273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesignsofserbia/pseuds/thesignsofserbia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The East Wind pursues him still, bleeding through the cracks and onto the streets of London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrap Up Warm

**Author's Note:**

> Just a very short exploration of the idea that Sherlock struggling to cope with what happened in Eastern Europe presents as some sort of unusual phobia. In this case, the temperature drop reminds him too much of a freezing underground interrogation room in Serbia.
> 
> Deliberately vague seeing as it's from John's perspective, mostly just a writing exercise.

 

 

It’s never a good start to the morning if it’s cold.

  
For whatever reason, since he got back Sherlock can’t stand the cold days. He’s twitchy and just… _off_ in every respect. He can’t seem to keep warm, even when John’s put the heat on so high that it’s sweltering, he still behaves like the cold has seeped into his bones, chilling him from the inside out.

  
It’s more likely that the weather has gotten into his damn _head_ , and it looks like he’s been snowed in. Sometimes Sherlock takes even words like _‘eccentric’_ to new extremes.

  
This new aversion is a mystery to John and he doesn’t even know where to start with it, but it’s an annoying one. Sherlock is always bad-tempered when it gets below a certain temperature, and John’s just looking for an excuse to complain about it.   


But it’s not your garden-variety-petulant-Sherlock-strop, the kind he used to throw for a wide spectrum of ‘reasons’, like for example when the weather was having an adverse (or rather; _positive_ ) effect on the city’s crime rates.

  
No, this, whatever _it_ actually is, really bothers him; the cold is getting under Sherlock’s skin until he can’t seem to ignore it, in a way John’s never seen anything do before.

  
It just becomes a fact of life that it’s never a good day when it’s cold.

  
Sherlock is distant, unreachable and unco-operative, but he also refuses to engage with John, won’t even be lured into arguments he’ll surely win. So despite John’s best efforts to distract him, Sherlock is immobilised by the force of his misery. But perhaps misery is not the right word, perhaps dread, preoccupation or maybe even _phobia_ would be more fitting.

  
So when John blows in off the streets, from the midst of what he could only describe as a downright blizzard, it’s not really much of a surprise that the mood of the flat is sullen and oppressive from the first moment he walks in.

  
As a general rule, it doesn’t get that cold in London, just because the sheer amount of kinetic energy that builds up from so many people existing within the same space tends to raise the average temperature. But bloody hell, the air is _icy_ out there.

  
He’d thought it’d been bad when he’d left for work early this morning, but now it’s positively freezing, somehow having gotten colder throughout the day, there must be an East Wind blowing.

  
But that’s a thought he’ll keep to himself, because last time he’d used that term, Sherlock’s expression had immediately shut down and all prospects for conversation that evening had promptly been shot in the face. John wasn’t sure what Eastern Europe had done to piss Sherlock off so much, but whatever it was, the man was holding a grudge.

  
The boiler’s not working properly either apparently, leaving the flat chilly which doesn’t help. Chilly, and unnaturally still. So he stumbles in and lights the fire with numb fingers.

  
He finds Sherlock curled up in the middle of his bed, under a frankly obscene amount of blankets, John didn’t even know they _had_ that many blankets. He has a suspicion that his flatmate has been here all day, and he appears to have no intentions of budging.

  
A grown man childishly hiding from a bit of snow in a fort of blankets should be comical, but it’s not amusing at all, and John’s not laughing. It’s a distinctly sobering sight.

  
Because Sherlock has retreated into a foetal position, acting for all the world like the cold has the potential (and every intent) to harm him. All that’s visible of Sherlock is the top of his head, curls strewn in disarray, splayed out on his pillow, like he’s been running nervous hands through them.

  
His arms are wrapped around himself tightly, gripping his ribcage with both hands and holding on for dear life as he tries to block out the world.

  
John doesn’t have the first clue as to why Sherlock is behaving this way, why a bit of frost is suddenly the end of the world, because John’s never known Sherlock to let it stop him before, never known him to be truly afraid of anything before, for that matter.

  
After this escalation, John no longer cares why the problem exists, just that it does. He edges further into the room, shifting uneasily as he hovers next to the bed.

  
“Don’t touch me.” Sherlock warns defensively without provocation.

  
John hadn’t said a word, and he hadn’t been going to, but Sherlock’s words, aiming for aggressive, sound small somehow.

  
“Er…okay,” John glances around for a clue, “Is there anything I can do?” he asks hopefully, feeling obsolete.

  
Sherlock doesn’t snap at him, the slight rustling of Sherlock shaking his head miserably under the covers is the only response.

  
“Right, okay well just shout if you need anything,” John sighs in defeat.

  
He comes back with a mug of tea and a hot water bottle, before leaving Sherlock his privacy.

  
John spends the night not sleeping and shivering on the couch, close at hand in case his flatmate calls for him. He doesn’t.

  
It is with solemn, red, gritty eyes and a heavy heart that John takes in the 5 o’clock news the next morning, and the information that the cold front is expected to continue to bombard them for at least the next few days.

  
Over the howl of the wind he thinks he catches a pained whimper.

 


End file.
